Greta Ghia Is A Roaster
Dolcett Play in SL - the other other white meat

by Wendell Holmer

Meatgirls and a state-of-the-art Slutoaster

Greta Ghia stands proudly, shoulders back, chest puffed out, a brave smile on her face. This is the moment she has waited for all her life.

For years, she has kept a strict diet and exercise regimen, preparing as her mother taught her. This morning she cleaned herself inside and out, using special soaps and lotions. She knew she would be beautiful on her special day, and she is. I stand and watch, a guest at a dinner in her honor. But she will not be dining with us.

She is the meal.

Greta gets a sexual charge out of being killed and eaten. Always has. “When I was very young, about age six or so, I found alligators fascinating,” she told me. “The idea of them wanting to eat me fascinated me. As I got older, it became sexual somehow. I was ashamed and embarrassed.”

She played Dungeons and Dragons with her boyfriend. Sometimes the Orcs would capture her. “They wanted to eat me, but I was always rescued. I found myself getting so aroused by this game,” she recalls.

[what follows is definitely NOT SAFE FOR WORK - proceed at your own risk - the Editrix]

“One night, my boyfriend decided to be mean. Instead of saving me, he had them prepare and eat me. I was so hot when we were done. I fucked him so well that night.”

When Greta visited Second Life, she learned about Dolcett. That is the pen name of an obscure, hack cartoonist who specializes in scenarios where women are cut up with meat saws or roasted on a spit. A cult has grown up around his work in Second Life. Greta and a couple of friends started a Dolcett group, which now has hundreds of members.

inspection

The chef, Italyan Cuttita, looks Greta over carefully. “I need to probe her,” he explains, “to see if there is any reason not to cook her.” He thinks she may make a roaster. This is high praise indeed. Girls who have imperfections are ground into hamburger. “Come here greta pig,” he says, not unkindly, attaching her to a rack. He slides a thick finger insider her. “Did you clean out?” he asks, “Or do I need to use the hose?”

The preparations began at Wicked World, where there is a cook’s kitchen, including a state-of-the-art Slutoaster. Meatgirls at Wicked World must follow the rules. “If you are going to be meat here you will be naked at all times,” owner Teri Bardeen explains to Greta. She turns to me. “It makes them stand out. Meat is nothing more than what a cow is. You wouldn’t dress up a cow would you?”

“You don't have a name, since you're just meat,” Terry’s assistant tells Greta. When Greta makes a comment, the assistant says to me, “It sure does talk a lot.”

Italyan is satisfied with Greta’s papers and final inspection, “She is definitely a roaster,” he says. “The roasters are particularly sexy. Their bodies are nearly perfect. Her tits could be bigger, but we will fill them with bastings.”

Greta Ghia stands proudly, knowing she made a roaster after all. “I was told I would be most beautiful on My Day,” she says, walking into an open shower in the prep area.

“The shower acts as a depilatory,” Italyan explains. “Her body hair will be removed—all of it—and she will be ready for butchering and hanging.” He turns to me and says, as an afterthought, “I forgot to ask. Do you prefer a live roast, Wendell, or a butchered roasting?”

And this is where things get really weird. Until now, I have been playing this for laughs, but with this question, it occurs to me that my friend is about to be slaughtered. She watches me intently. The length of her life is in my hands. And I can’t decide. “I hate to see her killed,” I say, “but I hate to see her suffer.”

Italyan nods. “Understood,” he says. “She won’t suffer. There are drugs induced into her that curb her pain to a manageable level, almost like a severe sunburn.”

Italyan directs the cow into the shower. He pokes her. “Come on.” She hurries to obey. “She is drenched in water. Then the dipilitory is introduced. Slowly her hair will dissolve until there is none.”

Greta closes her eyes and waits, she rubs the water on her skin, feeling the sensation for what she knows is the last time. I watch, stunned. Italyan continues in a matter-of-fact way. “It also works to moisturize and settles a thin glaze on her. He turns off the shower. Greta looks sadly at her red hair choking the drain. Italyan directs her out of the shower. “Does she look sexy now?” he asks mockingly.

preparations

Italyan has an outdoor barbecue in mind, so we meet at Animatum, where there is an open pit. Greta bites her lip as she sees flaming logs under a spit. “Follow me,” Italyan orders. “This is the place. Come cow....come kneel at the front.

“Wendell, help me slide this spit into her. One arm and one leg.....the point goes in her cunt. Then we slowly slide her down.”

I can’t do anything but look on in horror and breathe through clenched teeth. Greta Ghia trembles as she is lifted up. She whimpers as the point slides in. I look away. “There!” Italyan says with satisfaction. We will tie her into place and the roaster will do the rest.”

Italyan is able to insert the skewer in such a way that it misses the vital organs, leaving Greta alive and conscious as long as possible. She whimpers pitifully until the point emerges from her mouth.

Italyan hands me a steel bowl filled with butter and oil, a paintbrush handle sticking out. “Baste her as she comes around,” he says. “Keep her cunt wet.”

Greta’s eyes look into mine, her mouth working against the spit as she struggles. She blinks as she feels the heat drying her eyes. She smells herself beginning to cook.

roasting

“She can hear us?” I ask in a whisper. “She knows what's happening?”

“Yes she does,” Italyan says, nodding. “She feels a burn and a sensation. When you brush her clit and cunt....she will feel pleasure. See the drippings? And hear the sizzle? What do you think, Wendell? Would you have sex with a cow knowing you were going to eat her for dinner the next day?”

I want to talk to her, and Italyan tells me she will blink once for yes, twice for no. “They are trained,” he says.

“Greta?” I ask softly, “are you in pain?”

She hesitates but blinks once.

“We can stop this,” I say urgently. “Do you want to stop this?”

She blinks twice.

“You can’t stop it, Wendell,” Italyan says. “Look at her body. It is roasting and her skin is beginning to brown.”

I stare in horror at the singed skin. My mouth is dry. I can hardly choke out the words. “Do you want to live, Greta?”

“She is all gone but for the slicing,” Italyan interrupts, but I ignore him and stare intently into her eyes. She blinks twice.

“It is in her breeding, Wendell,” Italyan says, but I shake my head and ask her, “Didn't you ever want to fall in love?”

She hesitates a long time. Then blinks twice.

Her responses grow weaker. “Do you have any regrets at all?”

It takes a long time. She is almost gone. She blinks twice. “Meat is meat, Wendell,” Italyan says.

It looks like she is trying to cry out. She shudders violently, her legs working her up and down the spit. Sitting at the keyboard, watching this on the screen, my eyes are filled with tears. Italyan nods and puts a hand on my shoulder, warm and comforting. “It's best not to love the meat,” he says, basting my friend as she turns on the spit. At length he says, “Her eyes are finished, and so is she. She is just a meat carcass now, toasting for us. We will bring her inside to the butchery.”

He pulls her off the spit--I am completely useless; I just stand by and watch—and carries her inside. There, he chops off her arms, head, and legs and prepares her for the oven. Just when I think it can’t get any worse, he announces in a matter-of-fact way, “Then I give her my special seasonings.”

butchering

While Italyan was cutting Greta up, he had a massive erection. Now he plunges into her, fucking the dead, trussed-up torso with zeal. Greta tells me later that she believes Italyan was masturbating at the keyboard as he acted this out. He arranges the carcas on a tray with spuds, lettuce and carrots and, just then, excuses himself to take a phone call.

I have no appetite. I am not aroused. I fail to see any humor in this. I sit alone in the diner with a friend’s congealing corpse and think about cruelty. Italyan comes back and tells me something has come up and he has to go.

Later, as we sit in my office, Greta tells me she really liked it. She will think back on the erotic fantasy. I ask her what part will play in her head as she touches herself. “I think the hottest image in my head later will be standing helpless in front of him as he calmly orders me to start,” she says.

I shrug. It’s time to go. I am supposed to meet some friends for dinner. But somehow, tonight, I don’t feel hungry.

-----------Originally from Second Life Herald